Page 63 of Vilest Things
Calla had been at his mercy. Her weapon was down. She’d practically begged to answer for her crime, palms open.
But if he wanted to, he could have put in the command days ago. The moment he found himself in that throne room, gasping while his qi settled into August’s body, he could have ordered that Calla stay locked up and ready her execution. He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
It’s not that he wants her dead, not really. He wants her on his side.
Anton’s eyes flicker across the carriage seats and land on Otta. Their vehicle lurches, the terrain changing from rough dirt to even stone. The bridge across the Jinzi River has stood for longer than their kingdom keeps records, built in the earliest years the moment there was travel between the north and the south. When the wheels lurch again and run onto smooth ground, they’ve finally found themselves in Lankil Province. The upper half of Talin, which the Palace of Heavens used to govern.
“You’re staring.”
Anton, slowly, reaches over. He loops his finger into Otta’s sleeve and lifts it slightly to show her the small blot of blood there.
“You really shouldn’t have entered the fight.”
“This again.” Otta rolls her eyes. “Relax, Majesty, I wasn’t intruding on anyone’s commands or anything of the like. You needed the help.”
“I didn’t. I don’tneedanything.”
In fact,his bitterest innermost voice says,you’re supposed to needme.
The carriage slows. Before it’s pulled to a stop entirely, Anton gets to his feet and flings open the door, drawing protest from the two guards inside. The air is cool on his face. His neck has flushed underneath his jacket collar, sweat sticking to the nice fabrics.
Upon sighting him, the nearest Weisanna outside hops off his horse. The second carriage is immediately a frenzy when the door opens and the occupants bring out the injured. Most of the guards who fought against the attack will be fine. Scrapes and flesh wounds that need cleaning and wrapping.
“Talk to me,” Anton says to the Weisanna.
“We have six casualties.”
They counted five guards dead at the scene of the attack, but a sixth was bleeding out. Though the provinces are often short of resources, where there is a yamen, there must also be a healer. They’d hoped that he might hold out until they reached the yamen in the center of the province.
He didn’t make it, then.
Anton tilts his head to the trees. “We’ll dig graves. Bring them this way. Get them out of sight from the attendants; I don’t want anyone fainting and hitting their head.”
The Weisanna nods and disperses the instructions. The shield of night should give them an advantage when making camp out in the open. Though the delegation debated whether it was safe to find a random clearing off the main road after they crossed into Lankil, the numbers were on their side, and it was unlikely any rural group would best them in outright confrontation. The palace had brought almost double the number of guards as they had charges who needed protecting. Eight councilmembers, eighteen staff. Fifty guards, down to forty-four, ten of whom are standing in for the usual royal guard to accompany the king at all times. It ought to be perfectly fine. The only other option within traveling distance was an abandoned city that used to function as Lankil’s capital, and the likelihood of getting crushed by prewar infrastructure while sleeping there overnight was far higher than getting attacked by a province group in the open.
Anton starts to trudge toward the trees. He feels Otta slinking up beside him before he hears her; the goose bumps at the back of his neck raise in warning before she actually curls her hand upon his shoulder.
“I’ll say a few words,” she says, “to lay them to rest.”
“That really isn’t necessary.”
“Of course it is.”
He had seven years to lay her to rest. If he had done so earlier, perhaps hewouldn’t remain beholden to her now. Perhaps he would have found some other purpose in exile and never met Calla in the games either.
The guards begin to dig graves in the soft soil around the trees. To ensure their safety overnight, the Weisannas are surveying the perimeter, and Anton can see their movement through the thicket too. The councilmembers, meanwhile, remain in conversation at the roadside—something peculiar must be visible along the horizon, because they’re whispering about how much they miss San-Er and how much they hate seeing this space go to waste. It’s good that Lankil’s councilmember didn’t attend the delegation, or else they would be furious hearing these suggestions that are clearly economically infeasible.
“That should be fine,” Anton says when the graves are deep enough.
The guards go to fetch the bodies. Otta turns absently to watch them push back through the trees. She hums a tune under her breath until they’ve disappeared. Then, she says:
“You should sacrifice them.”
“I’m sorry?”
She tilts her head to the graves. “You managed it in the arena. You must know the power it can offer you.”
Anton raises his fingers to his temples. He presses hard, applying the pressure to think, but it’s also to get Otta out of his view, to use his hands to shield her away until he can resist the urge to snap at her.
